Stuck With You
by KassyMalone
Summary: After a battle on the high seas, Britain and France end up stranded on a tropical island, with no-one but each other for company. Already a recipe for disaster! Britain's competence for survival start to grate on France's nerves, but he's not holding together as well as it may seem. Exchange fic for bluejamjar, rated T for swearing.


The story behind the story: I follow bluejamjar and her art blog, bluejamjarart on tumblr (go check it out if you haven't already, she's amazing for being so young!), and she mentioned in a post that she was maybe 5 good FRUK fics away from rejoining the Hetalia fandom, so I thought - I bet I can make it four! So I message her as such (mainly because I was bored and stuck in a rut with other stuff I'm working on at the moment), and to be honest I didn't expect a reply! However, twenty minutes later we've arranged an exchange - you should definitely go and check out her art for a scene of Chubby Chaser! (And also read that if you haven't already). It makes me grin every time I look at it!

The prompt is as follows: , 'I've always wanted to see what would happen if after a battle on the water both the french and english ships sunk and Francis and Arthur ended up on the same little island as two of the very few survivors (being immortal of course), stuck with each other until help comes.'

Trapped on an island together? I can do that!

Edit: yikes! Not sure what kind of glitch happened that the page was covered in html, but it's fixed now!

* * *

**Stuck with You.**

"Ow."

"Shut up."

"Ow."

"Shut up."

"Ow."

"Shut up!"

Britain fought every impulse in his body to chuck his water-logged boot at France, who continued to tentatively pull sea urchins from his legs, wincing and whining like the absurd poodle that he was: he had lost enough without tossing away his footwear as well. He tipped the boot upside down, a stream of seawater, kelp, and a little fish falling to the parched white sand. It was so hot that he didn't bother to put it back on, and the fact that he was still exhausted from the long swim back to shore made it feel like far more trouble than it was worth.

How the hell had that even happened? Once minute they had been on the boat, cannonballs flying, rapiers glistening in the light, the shouts of the pirates and sailors all around – he had finally spotted that frilly bastards periwinkle blue coat and drawn his sword to engage him – but in the next second they were both in the water, swords still in their hands, with no way to get back onto their ships. No amount of yelling was going to be heard over the sounds of the battle, so they were just left there as the ships sailed off...

"How embarrassing." he muttered to himself.

"It's your fault." France spat, throwing the last urchin into the sea.

"How is it my fault?!" Britain demanded.

"You're the idiot who didn't notice the edge of the ship!" he countered "And you had to drag me down with you!"

"Fuck you!"

"Oh, is that how you thank your saviour, Mr. Can't Swim?!"

"Fuck you harder!"

They glared at each other, both too exhausted to start a fistfight. They turned away from each other at the exact same time, with such theatrical exaggeration that one could almost hear their necks snapping from the effort. France was the first to move, looking back at his retreating vessel with a wistful sigh.

"There goes my ship." he complained, glaring at Britain again "And my coat! Look at it! It's filthy and full of holes! And for that matter, what kind of pirate can't swim?!"

"What kind of seaman gives a shit about being dirty?!" Britain retorted.

He paused a second.

"Don't you dare snicker about the word 'seaman' either." he growled.

"I wasn't going to!" France insisted.

He was, but he didn't want to give Britain the satisfaction of knowing that. He pulled out his ponytail, using the ribbon to tie his hair higher on his head, leaving his neck free. He was getting very thirsty under the hot sun, but didn't want to admit that either. He startled a little when Britain suddenly got to his feet, pulling off his heavy crimson coat and throwing it over a nearby boulder.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To find something to drink." Britain admitted "This island isn't very big, so fresh water sources might be scarce."

"Oh, good idea! Big brother will come with you!"

"Don't bother." Britain spat immediately, not even looking at him as he walked up the beach to the tree-line.

Being stuck here was bad enough – Britain knew very well that he could survive on his own – but being stuck with _him_? He seriously considered cutting off his ears, just so he didn't have to listen to him. It felt like he had only been free of that bastard for the past few hundred years... He sighed out his frustrations, head pounding from dehydration. This island was subtropical, so it was humid as anything as well as hot. Just great.

After a couple of hours wandering about, he found a few small freshwater pools, hopefully fed by underground springs, but nothing to get excited about. He also found some fruit and coconut trees, so if he could just catch some fish then he could eat pretty well until they were rescued. He reluctantly poured the grog out of his flask and filled it with water, using his shirt to carry some fruit back to the beach. Hopefully, France had somehow gotten lost, so Britain could just go pick up his coat and find somewhere to sleep.

Britain had never been blessed with great luck, and today was no exception, but what he found at the beach was still pretty surprising.

"What the hell is that?"

Hearing his utterance, France appeared from behind the... 'structure', beaming proudly.

"I made shelter!" he declared, gesturing to the driftwood he had assembled "Now we don't have to sleep outside!"

"You built it on the beach." Britain pointed out.

"Of course. How else would passing ships see it?"

France looked so proud of himself, it was honestly a little heartbreaking. What kind of idiot builds on the beach? And for that matter, what the hell was that? It had no discernible opening, was far too small, and would almost certainly fall down, probably on the heads of anyone stupid enough to try and sleep under it. Sick of Frances obnoxious grinning mug, he kicked the thing over. He didn't even have to kick it very hard for it to fall apart, collapsing onto the sand.

"Ah!" France shrieked, absolutely horrified "Why did you do that?! That took me hours!"

"Shut the hell up!" Britain yelled back "Who would sleep under that?! Idiot! Do something useful and start a fire!"

"You horrible little eyebrows! Why should I do anything for you now?!"

"Are you seriously crying?! Pull yourself together and get some damn wood, or I'm setting fire to this useless 'shelter' of yours!"

"You're horrible! Horrible!"

France stormed off, wobbling on his stupid heeled boots up the beach. With an aggravated sigh, Britain dropped the fruit onto the sand and pulled the dagger from his coat pocket.

* * *

France was sulking. What a terrible day. Bad enough that there had been a battle, but the combination of seawater and humidity was doing horrible things to his hair! His feet hurt, he was hot and tired and Britain had destroyed all his hard work! He just wanted to go to sleep and wake up in his own bed back home, but no, he was stuck here with the grumpy eyebrows!

When he returned to the beach with an armful of kindling, his mood didn't improve with what greeted him: Britain had built another structure in his absence, securing a ceiling of palm leaves between some trees and fashioning some crude walls by positioning the driftwood against the trunks, laying more palm leaves over them. Annoyingly, he had also managed to catch some fish, which sat skewered on crude spears, waiting to be cooked. Why the hell was he so competent?

"Took you long enough." the Brit criticised when he noticed him "Do you remember how to light a fire, or do you need me to do that for you as well?"

"I can do it!"

That being said, it took him a moment to remember how to do it without matches or a tinderbox, but he did manage to get one lit. While Britain finished building, he gutted and cooked the fish, muttering to himself the whole time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you'd been shipwrecked before." France taunted as the younger nation came over for something to eat.

Britain responded by throwing a flask at his head.

"Hey!"

"Oh shut up." Britain grumbled "The sound of your voice is pissing me off."

"Well, excuse me for existing!"

France unscrewed the flask, hoping that drinking his booze would annoy Britain a little, only to find it full of water. That irked him for an inexplicable reason. Britain sat down beside the fire, grabbing one of the roasting fish and tucking in. He suddenly startled, like he couldn't believe that it was he had put in his mouth, taking it out to look at it.

"What did you do to this fish?" he asked in astonishment.

"Oh, I put the mango inside it when they were almost done cooking." France admitted "It's a little crude, but without my pots and spices I'm somewhat limited."

"That sounds positively horrendous." Britain said, still staring at the fish "And yet..."

He continued to eat it, nibbling ponderously.

"Fish and fruit, eh?"

God damn, that was cute. Visually, Britain was still around 15/16 years old, and hadn't yet lost the cuteness of childhood, so when he went and did cute thing like that it was unbearably adorable. France fought every urge to let out an inhuman squeal at how cute it was, taking a drink from the flask.

"You can make a lot of delicious things from the stuff you found." he said "If you like, Big Brother can teach you how."

"No thanks." was the immediate response.

"That's rude!"

"Grow a pair."

"Stop being a brat!"

"Stop being a prick!"

"You're calling _me_ a prick, eyebrows?! You're the one who destroyed my hard-made shelter that I worked hours on!"

"That's because it was crap! All it was good for was kindling!"

"Excuse me for not having your wild-man competence!"

France suddenly swooned, nearly collapsing, and had to be caught by Britain.

"Oi, what's wrong?" he asked "What happened?"

"I'm not sure." the older nation admitted "I suddenly got really dizzy."

France sat up, and Britain placed a palm on his forehead, staring seriously into his eyes.

"You're dehydrated." he decided "Don't tell me you've been drinking salt water."

"Of course not!"

Yelling made him dizzy again, so he shut his mouth, leaning on Britain a little.

"Typical." he muttered "Go lie down, you idiot, I'll get you some water."

With a little help, France got comfortable under the canopy of palm trees, head suddenly swimming. He hated to admit it, but this was better than the shelter he had made. He felt disappointingly incompetent next to his former little brother today, and his sudden dizzy fit certainly wasn't helping. If they were going to be stuck here together, he wasn't going to lose to Britains competence: he was Europe's Big Brother, dammit, and he was going to live up to that name!

* * *

When Britain woke up, he was still exhausted, muscles aching unreasonably – yesterday had taken more out of him than he thought. What did he have to do today? Food and water was objective one, after that he could focus on trying to flag down any passing ships. He audibly groaned when he remembered he wasn't alone on the island – he could already smell the garlic. Sleeping on the beach was no good for anyone's back, so he got up with some difficulty, stretching a little before ambling out along the sand.

He stopped – what the hell was he doing? France stood up to his knees in the surf, one of the sticks Britain had sharpened yesterday in his hands, completely soaked from head to toe. He had a look of complete determination on his face, the seriousness of it somewhat dulled by the sea urchins that had attached themselves to him in various places. Was he... fishing? Had he ever been fishing before? Judging by his success rate, the answer was probably no.

"What are you doing, you pillock?"

France startled, concentration so great that he hadn't realised the other was there. He looked around, grinning sheepishly.

"I'm getting breakfast!" he announced.

"Are you now?"

"Of course! Just look how many sea urchins I've caught!"

"I'm fairly sure you can't eat those."

"Of course you can, you just have to know how to prepare them! Don't you worry, big brother will have a feast ready to eat before you know it."

France winked at him, raising his thumb triumphantly. Idiot. Well, it kept the lily-scented fop out of his hair, so Britain left him to it, picking up his empty flask to fetch some more fresh water.

It was pleasantly silent on this island, the sound of the waves breaking against the beach by far the loudest sound, accompanied by the occasional birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the wind – it would have been a very relaxing place to be if he weren't marooned with the person that irritated him the most. Also the fact that there were birds on the island meant that they could eat something other than fish and fruit, so there was that.

He doubted France would catch anything – and even if he did, he wasn't sure that he wanted to eat it (sea urchin? No thanks!) – so set about foraging again, staying extra quiet so as not to alert any lunch (read: birds) to his presence. The whole routine conjured up unpleasant memories from his childhood, but he pushed them down – this and that were different things, thank you very much, and he wasn't a child anymore. Everything would work out fine – he and _that one_ would have no problem surviving here until help came: their ships had been passing on a well travelled shipping route, so it was only a matter of time before another ship came past and they'd be rescued.

Everything would be fine. Everything would be fine.

* * *

Britain regarded the prepared urchins like alien life dredged up from the deep, his face a mixture of horror and fascination. It was funny to look at, except it went on so long that France was starting to get insulted.

"Are you going to eat that thing or just stare at it?" France asked, already starting on his third.

"I don't know. I haven't decided yet." he admitted, holding the spiny creature very carefully indeed.

"Are you really in a position to be picky?" France pointed out.

Britain just glared at him. He had brought some fruit back from his jaunt to find water, but not as much as yesterday, and seemed oddly... distracted. France put it aside – who knows what goes on that head of his? Maybe he was thinking about women. Was he old enough to be thinking about women? That thought made him a little sad – surely Britain wasn't old enough to be thinking about women! Surely!

"Penny for your thoughts?" he said.

"Piss off, beardy."

Well, that's a relief.

"Is this supposed to look like this?" Britain asked, still regarding the urchin "It looks like something I'd clean my pots with."

"You're not really in a position to criticise." France teased "I've seen what your food looks like. Besides, it's kind of rude to cast aspersions about another creatures intestines."

"I can't help but wonder about the person why first saw this and thought 'that looks like good eating!'"

"Many a true word said in jest." France agreed "But eat it – it's tasty."

Britain 'hmmmm'd thoughtfully, but the urchin went no further towards his mouth. It was actually pretty annoying – catching and preparing these things wasn't easy, you know! His poor hand looked like a colander! Britain wasn't a fussy eater when it came to foods he had seen before, but put something new in front of him and he pursed his lips together like a toddler confronted with carrots. Well... that was pretty cute in Frances opinion. He hadn't thought so back when he was Britains boss and it took him hours to get the boy to eat, but from a distance...

Oh bother, the fire was dying out – they needed to keep it lit and billowing if it was going to catch the attention of passing ships.

"I'll get some more kindling." he decided, getting to his feet and trotting up the beach"Stay here, I-"

He let out a most uncivilised swear as he stumbled on the loose sand, landing flat on his face. Britain bursting into raucous laughter didn't help, and he spun around ashen faced.

"That was not my fault!" he swore "I've been tripping all day on this stupid sand!"

"That's because you're still wearing those daft heeled shoes, you stupid sod!"

"How dare you! These shoes are the height of fashion in Paris! This silk is imported from China, the leather from Milan, the-!"

"They're embroidered." Britain noted.

"Of course! Such fine embroidery is the peak of sophistication and beauty! Not that you would know, of course."

"You know what else they are?"

"Hm? What's that?"

Quick as a flash, Britain swiped the shoes right off Frances feet, and with a mighty swing of adolescent rebellion, threw them far into the surf.

"Not waterproof."

France let out an inhuman scream, dashing into the water after them. Yesterdays salt water dip had been bad enough! Was he trying to ruin him?! Sure enough, by the time France found them amongst the sand, seashells and kelp, one was completely ruined and the other not far off. He let out a devastated whimper as a crab swung lazily from one before releasing it, falling back into the brine with a _splosh. _It wasn't until he heard Britains delighted cackling that he snapped, sprinting back to the beach and grabbing him by the scruff.

"You Island-minded Hooligan!" he shrieked "If only your brain was as quick as your hands, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"What did you call me, you absurd frog bastard?!"

"A moody, rainy little island filled with sheep and weird fairy stories! How can you not appreciate such things of beauty?!"

"They're just flipping shoes!" Britain argued back as they tousled "Get a grip, or has all that perfume seeped into your brain?! Frogs don't need shoes anyway!"

"Black sheep of Europe!"

"Bankrupt loser!"

"Delinquent!"

"Boat!"

"Boat?"

"Boat!"

A ship! It wasn't far off either! The arguing nations released each other, waving their arms about frantically and yelling at the top of their lungs, hoping the catch its attention. When that didn't work, Britain snatched up his crimson red coat, waving it about like matador trying to get the attention of a disinterested bull three fields over, but to no avail. After a few minutes of frantic effort, the ship had sailed too far away for them to get its attention, leaving them panting and sweaty from the effort, but no closer to being rescued.

"Where's it going?" France whined "Why didn't they see us?"

"Maybe because you let the fire go out." Britain grumbled.

"Me?!" France countered "I was on my way to get firewood when you decided to start an argument!"

"I'm not the one who fell on my idiot face because I was wearing stupid shoes!"

"So you admit you have an idiot face?"

"God, you piss me off!"

"You're always pissed off! You're like a Jack Russell with anger issues – all teeth and high pitched yapping!"

"Say that again, you over-quaffed poodle!"

A rumble of thunder in the distance cut the conversation short. They looked around with extreme trepidation, spotting a familiar blackening sky on the horizon, spreading quickly across the oceans canvas. Streaks of lightning coursed down from them, surrounded by the grey haze of far off rain. The hairs on the back of their necks stood on end as another rumble of thunder washed over them.

"Tropical storm?" France postured.

"Looks like it." Britain agreed.

"Oh, great." France sobbed, tugging at his locks "Like my hair hasn't suffered enough already."

A wind kicked up, quickly growing stronger. France couldn't help but notice Britain physically shudder.

"We have bigger problems than your hair." he pointed out "That shelter will never hold up in high wind. We should get into the trees further into the island – it's about the only protection we have."

France opened his mouth to argue, more out of habit than actually having a point, but the rapidly blackening sky made him think twice.

"Good idea."

* * *

They hadn't made it far into the islands woods when the wind started to get fierce, threatening to sweep them both right off their feet. It was so strong that it tore the ribbon from Frances hair, sending both it and his blond locks flying.

"We need to find somewhere to hide!" he pointed out, already having to raise his voice over the roar of the approaching storm "A thicket or a cave or something!"

"I saw an overhang of rock before!" Britain recalled "I think that's going to be the best we've got!"

It was far from an ideal solution, but they weren't exactly in a position to go exploring right now. France clung to Britain to steady them both against the wind, and he didn't actually mind as it threatened to sweep them both off their feet. The light all around them dimmed dramatically, the heavens opening and pouring down a torrent of ice cold rain. They struggled as fast as possible to the place he had seen the overhang of rock, but it was distressingly smaller than he remembered it being.

They both hit the ground, not caring about the tar-thick mud staining their britches, and threw their back against the rock, pressing into it like it would keep the storm itself at bay. It provided some cover, but they had to keep their knees up by their chests to protect their feet. They both jumped as lightning struck distressingly close by, deafening thunder following almost immediately. France laughed, manic with nervous energy.

"We never get big storms like this in Europe!" he yelled above the wind, laughing again "Is it just me, or do storms get less impressive as you get older?!"

He said something else, but the thunder drowned it out. Britain pulled his knees right up to himself, hugging his legs so tightly that it hurt. Being here had put him of edge already, and now this... he started to hyperventilate, losing control. All at once he was a little boy again, scavenging for food, avoiding France, desperately hiding from thunderstorms, not knowing when someone was going to come and help him, if anyone would come at all!

He started to shake. He hated it. He didn't want to be here. He hated it. He wanted to go home! He didn't want to be hungry any more! He didn't want to hide in the tree again! He hated it here! He didn't want to be afraid!

He snapped back to the here and now as France pulled him roughly, forcing him to look at him. Concern and confusion covered his face as he held his arms tightly. Feeling his whole body flinch as the thunder stuck again, he seemed to realise what the problem was. Gently but firmly, he pulled Britain against him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tightly. He didn't struggle, too lost in the pounding of his heart and the horrible memories swirling in his head to fight. Frances mouth moved like he was speaking, but it was inaudible over the storm.

Britain hadn't realised how badly he had been shaking, but now that he had something sturdy around him it was all too clear, as he felt every twitch and convulsion fighting Frances grip. He didn't like this one bit. Good god... he felt hot, fat tears rising in his eyes, and was overcome with self pity. He swore he was going to stop crying! He wasn't a little kid anymore, why was he such a crybaby?!

His sobs didn't go unnoticed by France, and for just a moment his face was crossed with a look of genuine devastation. Whether it was instinct, compassion, or some other force, France acted quickly and – in hindsight – very unwisely. He kissed Britain, full on the mouth. His whole body stopped shaking from the shock of it, but France didn't let it end there, deepening it, leaning into him. The storm raged all around them, causing the trees sturdy trunks to sway and whipping the canopy into a frenzy, but everything between them was still.

It was reassuring. It was good. Britain didn't fight it. This seemed to be all the indication France needed that it was okay to proceed, slipping a wet hand under Britain sodden shirt to caress the flesh of his back. The shirt was the first thing to go, breaking their kiss just long enough to pull it from the pirates torso and throw it aside. France ripped open the buttons on his own shirt at lighting speed, tossing that away as well, unwanted an unrequited.

Completely overcome, Britain either didn't notice or didn't mind when France pulled off his trousers, pushed him down onto his back and leaned over him, kissed everywhere except for his mouth. He couldn't even hear his own voice over the wind and the thunder and the pounding of the rain against the trees. His every sense was overwhelmed, given in to the storm, to the sensation and – for one night only – to France.

* * *

The island was one hell of a mess in the morning – needless to say there were bits of tree everywhere, and a lot of the fruit got ruined, but they both snickered in amusement to find random fish stuck in branches and Britains bright crimson coat decorating a bush.

"That's never gonna get clean." Britain joked.

"Why does a pirate care about being clean?" France quipped.

They had to rebuild their shelter by the beach, of course, but at least now they had plenty of wood to burn – once it had all dried out, that is. With that taken care of, France did his best to find them something to eat, once again stood in the surf up to his knees with a sharp stick in his hand, while Britain went back into the island proper, searching for a cave under pretext of looking for some fruit that hadn't been ruined and checking on their drinking water. Hopefully they wouldn't be here long enough for another storm to hit them, but better safe than sorry.

He returned with a shirtful of fruit, but no cave, so they had to spend another night on their makeshift shelter by the beach. France made no secret of the fact that he have liked a repeat of last night, pointing out the bright red hickies on Britain neck and teasing him about his limp this morning, and sulked like a spoilt child when he was rebuffed, branding Britain a 'spoilsport.' Despite his sulking, he did roll over and keep his hands to himself, although he continued to tease him well into the night.

The next morning they spotted a ship sailing close by, France fanning the fire with a great palm leave to make the smoke billow while Britain once again waved around his coat to catch their attention. This time luck was on their side, as the ship dropped anchor and launched a small vessel to pick them up.

Luck was never Britains strong point, though, and his stomach bottomed out as the small boat got closer, and a familiar head of curly brown hair and bright green eyes becoming visible.

"Spain!" France realised happily.

"Fucking fuck!" Britain swore "What are the chances?!"

He turned to France suddenly, his serious glare making the older nation jump a little.

"Don't you _dare_ tell him what happened!" he hissed.

"What? Of course not!" France promised, holding up his hands to show his fingers weren't crossed "Why would I? Honestly, you act like it was your first time or something."

Britain just growled at him, pulling on his tattered coat and preparing himself for the inevitable argument/sword fight with Spain. He would never admit the truth, of course, but the subtle smirk that crossed Frances lips suggested that he probably knew it already.

* * *

Aaaand that's all she wrote. Short and sweet (just like me) - I hope you found it a suitable exchange (even if the fine details were a little bit different…).

I haven't been very active here lately - sorry for those of you eagerly anticipating new chapters of Three's a Crowd and An Unwanted Side Story (haha 'eagerly'), but I've been crazy busy with some original work and good old fashioned bill-paying work (I also got sick and lost the hearing in one ear for a while - that was interesting...), but I haven't forgotten you! I just need a kick in the butt and more free time! Those needing their fix until then can always check out my book on Amazon...


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